


The House Always Wins

by syzygia



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 13:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16787914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syzygia/pseuds/syzygia
Summary: Like cards, he had counted futures: eighteen futures where he and Duck left the trailer together; six where he would be needed to attack the beast they were fighting and turn the tide; three futures wherein he became separated; only one future where he would lean against a tree, alone, blood seeping from his ribs, his chest, the meat of his side. The odds were in his favor. The odds were in everyone's favor.Despite odds, Ladies Luck and Fate can be cruel, and Indrid has known this for years.(in which Indrid makes a bet with fate and loses badly, Duck performs some ill-advised home surgery, and Aubrey and Ned help.)





	The House Always Wins

Indrid's always been a gambling man. Hedge a bet here, watch the cards there, hold a suspenseful breath in wait of the roll of the dice.

It comes second nature, or possibly first. Staring down the thousands of futures gives him an unnatural advantage, yes, but this is why he favors dice when he plays for fun. There are so many combinations that he can't possibly predict it every time. When he's playing to win, he'll play cards; Sight aside, he can count them.

Like cards, he had counted futures: eighteen futures where he and Duck left the trailer together; six where he would be needed to attack the beast they were fighting and turn the tide; three futures wherein he became separated; only one future where he would lean against a tree, alone, blood seeping from his ribs, his chest, the meat of his side. The odds were in his favor. The odds were in everyone's favor.

Despite odds, Ladies Luck and Fate can be cruel, and Indrid has known this for years.

Breaths come to him short, sharp, quick. He works to slow them, visions pressing in, visions of breathing so swiftly he loses himself and falls face-first into the snow. He holds, which hurts, and then breathes, which hurts no less.

The present swims around him and swirls in with the past, then the future, then loops back into the past.

_"Sure you wanna come help with this thing?" Duck raises an eyebrow, lifts a hand to scratch at the scruff on his face._

_"Of course," Indrid replies, and grins smoothly. Sharply. "You need it, and, well, it's been some time since I got out, you know. I'll wager my inclinations will be of use to you."_

_Duck's eyebrow comes back down and knits with the other, but he does not argue._

'Of use', indeed.

A shiver rolls through Indrid's body from the base of his neck to the edges of his fingers, finally settling into a fine tremor. Indrid raises a hand and sets it against his ribs, ginger, and checks it for blood.

(It's a little hard to see the color through his glasses, he thinks, he feels. Everything is the color of blood.)

There are holes in the fabric, steadily leaking, wet and red. Indrid shifts against the tree, rough bark of the pine against his back, and reaches to undo his coat. It's slow going; his fingers aren't working the way he'd like them to, blood-slick, trembling, chilled. The tremor in his fingers moves down to his knees, but he stays standing yet, and opens the folds of his coat.

Immediately, there is pain. He whines, he whimpers, as the coat tugs on something in his chest, and he finds himself gasping. Indrid peels his eyes open (when did he close them?) and looks down.

There, broken off into his flesh, in the meat of him, is a curved, cruel spine. Yes, of course. This is only a mild surprise.

Futures press at the corners of his vision: six where he attempts to remove the thing himself; six where he does not. He follows into one where he rips it from his own chest: there he is, gasping, bleeding, breaking, sobbing. He then follows one where he leaves it, and it _digs_ its way further into him, skewering his lung, leaving him gasping, bleeding, breaking, sobbing --

When the vision subsides, he's panting, crumpled to the ground, and his glasses fogged. His hands, they're even colder now, dipped into the snow where Indrid now sits.

The single shiver has become a chatter of teeth and a full-body shake, and Indrid tenderly pulls his coat closed. The breaths he takes are shallow and raw and three more visions of hyperventilation threaten to overtake him.

It is now that he hears the crunching of snow.

Indrid's breath halts and he holds perfectly, exactly, painfully still.

"Indrid? Jesus Christ, there you are, bud!"

At the sound of Duck Newton's voice, Indrid is rocked by relief so encompassing that he feels tears prickle in his eyes. There's a smile on Duck's face that nearly matches the feeling, but it's fleeting.

"Shit, you okay?" Duck is by Indrid's side now, kneeling into the snow. There's heat and steam wafting off of him, and Indrid leans towards it.

"The, ah, the..." he takes a shuddering breath, "Duck, I seem to have, some need, of assistance?" It is almost, he muses, as if someone else is speaking for him. How strange, how odd. Usually he is the one doing that.

"Well okay," Duck says, rolling and sheathing his sword. "What's goin' on? Is -- shit, Indrid, **is that blood?** "

Indrid can't help speaking with Duck - it's difficult enough not to when he has all his faculties - and his voice cracks. He licks his lips (they're cold, it's all cold) and pulls open his coat one more time. Duck's eyes widen and his cheeks, red with cold and exertion, go pale.

Indrid's head swims. Two futures where Duck throws up. Two where he calls Mama before anything else. One where he has enough service to reach her. Dozens of futures of Duck hoisting a bleeding Indrid into his arms. This time, there's a new variable: in some, Duck pulls the spike from Indrid's shoulder first, and in some, he does not. Indrid pushes into the first set, watching them play, and then the second.

When Indrid returns to the present, his head rests heavy in Duck's hand. The contact is beautifully warm, and Indrid makes no move away from it.

A half-pat of the hand, gentle tap on the cheek. Despite the soft touch, Duck's voice is bowstring-taught. "Hey, still with me?"

Indrid mumbles an assent and focuses on the man next to him. Duck is looking at him expectantly, and all Indrid can do is stare.

"Listen," and here, Duck seems to solidify, "I don't think **we should take that thing out.** "

Indrid says it with him and licks his lips, salty from sweat. "No," he replies, little more than a croak, "it needs to come out. I, I need it to. Now? Please."

"Nah, now, hold on, it can wait a minute. I know it hurts, but it's keepin' you from bleeding out on me."

"And that's, a _fair_ point, yes, but..." There's a pounding mounting behind Indrid's eyes, matched by the pounding of his wounds. "It's not a, a thorn, a -- a spine, it's a, **quill** ," Duck finishes with him, and Indrid gasps.

"Yes," Indrid swallows, "and I've, more than one, I believe, and they, ah... shh-- _shift_ \--"

Duck's cursing now, hand leaving Indrid's face and grasping for his phone. He dials quickly, holds it to his ear, then curses again, a blue streak so vibrant Indrid could paint with it.

(There, Duck's calling Mama, but no signal. This is one of those, then. A future spirals around Indrid, fluttering through the moonlight.)

There's another crunching in the snow, lighter this time, longer steps but with a skip, almost --

"Duck!" Aubrey, bright, breathless, adrenaline and youth. "We totally kicked that porcupine's ass! Did you find -- oh, shit! Is he --" Her steps, like her words, fumble and halt. He must look a mess, he thinks around the rattling of his brain and bones.

"Aubrey," Duck's reply comes measured, carefully curated. "Go on now and start the truck. We're right behind you."

"N-- I mean! Yes! But Indrid, **he's like, alive, right?** " He watches her fidgeting hands clench as he answers with her own question, and her eyes alight with joy.

"For now," Indrid huffs, "but please, start," another gasp, "the truck?"

She nods, steam rolling off her hands and shoulders, and darts away. A shaky sigh leaves Indrid, and then Duck's pulling him forward. A cry sharply escapes him, but there he is, bending exactly where Duck moves him.

"I know, I know, bud, I'm sorry 'bout this." Duck's already shuffled off his jacket and draped it over Indrid's shoulders. It's overlarge, almost more a blanket, but what a blessing. Duck leans him back against the tree, and Indrid watches the world spin.

"Oh, Duck," he manages, "six. Four. Ah -- two, fu-- futures, or, is it --" His eyes squeeze shut and he holds his breath for one, two, three, and lets it go, one, two, three. His eyes open again and he clutches at Duck's arm. "Get me," breathe, "out of here," breathe, "and get these," breathe, "out of me."

Duck needs no further instruction. He grips Indrid by the arm-shoulder-side that is not presently oozing and hauls him to standing. Indrid makes a noise that must sound as terrible as it feels, a keening, a heaving, an abrupt whimper. Duck has him by the arm and around the waist now, and Indrid thinks he should move, but the rest of him doesn't follow.

The stars have moved, Indrid thinks, and they might still be moving. Flecks of glitter and shadow lazily morph around his vision and a ringing, like an old television, plays in his ears. He watches Duck's mouth move but can't follow the words; Indrid feels his own mouth move in time, and the words are still lost. He says something else, something of his own, he can feel the rumble of his tenor in his own vocal chords, but the words...?

And then the futures. They press in against him, pushing on the edges of his vision. Three where he makes it to the truck on his feet. One where he doesn't make it at all. Four where Duck is carrying him in some shape, and they all look so painful, Indrid feels the echo of it in his body.

When Indrid opens his eyes again, when the futures fall away, he's half-sitting, half-laying in the back seat of Duck's vehicle. It's warm, or warmer, at least. Duck is in the back, on Indrid's left, while Aubrey and Ned sit in the front bench seat with matching looks of worry. They're not looking at him, though, they're looking at Duck, whose mouth is moving again.

"... at least the big one, y'know, them quills work further in, and I think it's between ribs."

He sounds so grim. What a terrible way for him to sound.

It's Aubrey who takes notice of Indrid's movements, and she brightens. "Oh! Hey! Welcome back, see, I got the heat on blast, and we're going to get you all fixed up, okay? Right? Duck's a medic, he's --"

"I'm not, Aubrey, just a first responder --"

"Better than we got!"

"Thank you, _Ned,_ really fuckin' useful."

Indrid watches them, listens to them talk. Aubrey's chatter is wound tighter than Duck's and she's fidgeting, clenching her hands and twisting pieces of her jacket. Ned seems more businesslike; among the squabbling, he roots around in a bag of some sort and hands something to Duck.

"Duck, Ned, Aubrey." Indrid raises a hand and grasps at the back of the front seat. His gaze lingers on each in turn. "In... i-in exactly, seventeen minutes and, twenty-four seconds, I will have a, fffucking, _quill_ , in my lung." Ragged breath, in, out. His stomach roils and twists. "M-May we, ah, avoid this?"

"A'right, okay, we're definitely doin' this now." There's an edge to Duck's voice, an almost-rush, a near-hurry. It's as close to panic as Indrid has ever heard him. "Aubrey, you hold the light, Ned, I'm gonna need you back here..."

There's rustling, shifting, a chill as a door opens and closes, then does so again, putting Ned on Indrid's right. Aubrey clicks the flashlight on and Indrid closes his eyes, turns his head.

"Sorry there mothman," Ned, this time, "need you wearing just a little less right now." His hands are not gentle the way Duck's were, but Ned's fingers are quick and capable, and he eases the coats open without issue or even much pain. There's a flick, a click, and a slash, and then Indrid's undershirt is two ribbons of blood and scrap. Duck takes it in, counting the wounds, counting the quills.

"Aubrey, light here, and Ned, you gotta -- right, like that, just, hey Indrid? Ned's gonna hold you if you move, okay? Sorry, I know it's bad, it's just, in case I gotta go diggin' --"

"Fifteen minutes," Indrid says, and Duck's rambling ceases.

"Okay." That's all Duck says before he gets to work. Indrid cracks his eyes open, watches Duck slip on a pair of blue gloves. He blinks, and Duck's hands are bare, gloves set on his thigh. Blinks again, and Duck already has his hands on Indrid's chest, cleaning away enough blood to see.

Mixing, then. Future, present, and past layer across each other. In a moment, when Indrid feels Duck's hands on his body, they realign.

Duck tells Indrid whenever he moves, or when something might sting. The information isn't new - Indrid sees what Duck does before, after, and as he does it - but the fact is, it's comforting for them both.

The quills, meanwhile, work ever further into Indrid's flesh.

"Twelve, Duck, t-twelve minutes," Indrid says, and it's a plea.

"Yeah, we're there." Duck pulls a multitool out of his pocket, swipes an alcohol wipe over it, and hovers the pliers over the largest protruding quill. Carefully, firmly, he fixes them on the quill and braces his other hand on Indrid's chest. "On three. One, two --"

He does it on two.

A strangled keen pours from Indrid. Ned has his hands braced on Indrid's body, keeping him from pulling away or falling or whatever it is he might do. Here it is, here is the moment, gasping, bleeding --

"Fuck, shit!"

\-- breaking --

"Duck, what--"

\-- sobbing --

"Fuckin' quill broke is what. Sorry, I'm sorry, this's gonna hurt --"

And Duck _digs_ , pliers pushed into the red and oozing wound, and Indrid's boneless and shaking, his cheeks are wet, his glasses fogged, ringing in his ears and static in his brain and futures falling away. There it is, he thinks, and he hears someone say that too, and his focus narrows only to the grinding and the tugging of the pliers and the quill.

"Almost," Indrid hears Duck say through a thick curtain, "almost-- there!"

Through a haze, Indrid sees Duck holding the inches-long, needle-sharp piece, and he feels the absence of pain so powerful it's near pleasure. Everything is bright; every color, every object smears into the others. Duck's put the thing aside now and he presses a cloth against the hole in Indrid's chest, and Indrid whines, hoarse and wet.

A vision bursts through the pain. He goes rigid, holds his breath, and waits for it to pass.

One. Two. Three.

He stutters out a shaky exhale.

The three of them, Duck, Ned, Aubrey, stare.

"Two," he manages, and then laments: "Two more."

"Aw, hell."

Indrid begins to tell them about his imminent fainting spell, but sounds dampen, save for that ever-present ringing, and his stomach turns. Something is said to him, or by him, someone calls his name, or asks him a question; Indrid hears it, but the knot of his consciousness is fraying.

The hands on him move from one wound to the next. Another word, another grip of the pliers, another alien push-pull of agony, Indrid heaves a great sob, and --

\-- the knot _snaps_.

There is a rumbling.

There's a rolling and a rumbling, shaking Indrid's limp frame.

He senses the world around him in slips and pieces. He is cold, lying on his side, and there is something warm weighing him down. His chest throbs and aches in time with his pulse. He smells something wet, organic, metallic. A voice from above him says something. That warm weight lifts and Indrid whimpers, aching for the contact, and a hand strokes from the top of his head to the curve of his shoulder. The weight, an arm, settles back onto him, and he sighs.

The rumbling continues, and Indrid trembles in time.

Eventually, the rumbling stops. There's a creaking sound, a chill, another creak, and then more hands on his body, pushing, pulling, lifting, holding, and the body he's pressed into may be the only thing keeping him on this Earth.

There's a flurry of motion, now, of noise and activity, and it passes by in spurts and waves: crackling noises; heat; rhythmic steps; a soft thing he's laid upon; voices. Voices saying many things. Voices saying many things many ways, some of them his lips move with and some they don't, but he neither hears nor cares what they say. A warm wetness on his chest, a soothing scrubbing, then a warm dryness doing the same. Then another, sort of different, heavy warm weight. Another. Another. Another.

Indrid Cold begins to thaw, and he slips down, down, down into sleep.

When he comes back, the first thing Indrid is aware of is the heat. There's no chill in his bones, and this is good, this is normal, this is about how warm he keeps the heaters, but... there is no whirr of the fan or thrum of the machines. That's strange. He cracks open one eye, then both, and this is not his Winnebago.

The lamp at his bedside is still lit, and there's an empty chair pushed back from the bed. Neither is of elaborate make, but they're well-worn, sturdy, and loved. Indrid blinks twice and takes in the rest of the room. It's small and cluttered, but not dirty, and not messy, either, save for the table the lamp sits on. A bookshelf stands tall near the bed, filled with trinkets and cheap paperbacks, and the dresser across the room is warmly, roughly finished. There's a settled feeling here, of countless moments, of years and routines.

This is, of course, Duck Newton's house.

He knows this not because he has ever been here, but because Aubrey lives at the lodge, Ned would not volunteer his own bed, and because of the vision Indrid sees of Duck preparing coffee later this morning and how well he knows the kitchen.

Indrid lifts his head and shifts up against the headboard of this bed, of Duck's bed, and groans. Slower then, slower, and it takes time, but Indrid rests upright now, blankets pulled with him.

The door to the room opens and there he is, the man of the hour, not clad in his coats or ranger's best or blue nitrile gloves - only slippers, thick fleece pants, and a sweater with the sleeves pushed up. Domestic, yes, but ragged, too; Duck's hair is a mess and the lines on his face are deeply drawn. Duck has a mug of something in one hand and he catches sight of Indrid, awake, and nearly drops the thing.

For the first time in hours, or days perhaps, Indrid smiles. "Good--" he croaks, clears his throat, tries again. "Good morning, Duck."

"Uh, mornin'." Duck sets the mug down on the table and settles into the chair next to the bed. "How's-- uh, not tryin' to be indelicate here, but you were pretty fucked up there, and, you good? Do you want anything, can I getcha, uhh..."

Indrid lifts a finger and points to the foot of the bed. "That blanket, actually, could you bring it here? I'd like to wear it."

Duck pulls the blanket, blue with thick stripes of red, orange, and gold, and drapes it around Indrid's shoulders. Indrid hums his thanks and pulls it around himself.

There is a moment where Indrid breathes, and Duck stares.

Duck breaks the silence. " **So this is my house,** shit, can you not do that right now?"

"My apologies."

"Right, thanks. Anyway. Ned 'n' Aubrey are sleepin' on my couch." Duck grabs the mug again, fingers worrying at the handle. "We, uh, brought you back here after amateur surgery hour. Thought about takin' you to the Lodge but I couldn't get ahold of anybody there and I, well, I wasn't sure the Lodge'd be the best place, seemed like more questions would be less helpful right now, you know?"

"I do," Indrid replies. His long fingers find the hem of the blanket and fuss with it. There's another pause, and he and Duck almost mirror each other, gazes askance and hands fidgeting. Indrid stops his movements, smoothes the blanket down.

"There's something you want to ask me, Duck. Please." He looks up, and Duck's head remains tilted away, but their eyes meet. "You'll do it sooner or later, it looks like, and I would prefer sooner."

Duck heaves a great sigh. "Just -- did you know? Yesterday? That you were gonna have your big damn hero moment," and there's bitterness and worry mounting in his words, "and maybe bleed out in the middle of the god-damn woods?"

Indrid weighs his response. "Duck. Believe me when I say that I had no intention of putting myself at risk like that."

"But you had to know something," Duck insists. "I mean, shit, you could'a just stayed home."

"It's... not so simple. Yes, I knew that this was a possibility, but it was one of many, and, frankly, one of the least likely." He tilts his head forward, looking at Duck through the tops of his glasses. "I don't gamble badly by choice, but I take my chances the same as you."

Duck grumbles something and his eyes fall away.

The two of them let the moment rest. Indrid hears a loud snore from beyond the bedroom; Ned, most likely.

Then, Indrid clears his dry throat. "Tell me, was that truly just last night?"

"Yeah," Duck sighs, "maybe like - think we got you here 'round ten? And it's, what..." Duck checks his watch, "five now? Shit." He sweeps a hand over his face, rubs his eyes, then fixes his gaze on Indrid. "That ain't that long, how are you awake?"

"I assure you, I'm a fair bit tougher than I look." Indrid's smile is wry, but fleeting. He holds up a hand and looks down at it, watching his fingers as they just barely shake. "But I admit, I think I'll be headed back down soon."

" **It's been a long night,** " they say together, and Duck wrinkles his nose.

Duck sets the mug down again. He hasn't yet taken a drink from it. "Good plan. Least lemme get a look at you first, huh?" He leans in, and Indrid allows him to remove the blankets from his upper body.

Three gauze pads are taped to Indrid's chest, one large, two small. There are dozens of other cuts, small pricks and pokes that weren't nearly so deep, and didn't have anything thrust into them that needed to be pulled out.

Indrid's heart beats hard and he swallows, pushing those thoughts far away.

Duck's fingers are tender as he tests and touches Indrid's ribs. He leans in close, and Indrid can smell him: Old Spice, stress sweat, coffee. It is, again, equal turns domestic and ragged. Duck continues to move, looking over every piece of tape and every cut, and it's so methodical that Indrid can let his eyes fall closed.

"Indrid?"

Indrid sniffs, blinks, and lifts his head. Duck is again sitting in the chair, and the blankets are around Indrid's shoulder again. "Hm? What?"

"Just checkin'." Duck is once more holding the mug. It's barely steaming anymore. "Needed to make sure you weren't passin' out again. You're lookin' okay, bandages don't need changed yet. You wanna lay back down?"

Bleary, blinking, Indrid nods.

"Drink some of this first." Duck holds the mug out for Indrid, who takes it and breathes in the steam before he sips. It's hot, it's spicy, it's sweet. He takes another, longer pull.

"Ginger," Duck offers, "and honey. Little salt, too."

"Thank you." Licking his lips, Indrid sets it aside. No need to overwhelm himself. He slumps down the headboard and shuffles his way back under the covers with only some help from Duck.

"I'll be here when you wake up. We all will, probably." Duck settles back in the chair, sets one ankle atop the other knee. "I'll see if I can keep Aubrey from stormin' you, when she gets up."

With a hum of a laugh, a smile ghosts across Indrid's face. "Thank you," he says, or maybe he doesn't, but either way, he reaches a hand out and rests it against Duck's. He feels Duck's hand closing over his own, and in the grip of warmth, Indrid rests.

**Author's Note:**

> please, y'all, don't try this at home. 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed 4k of indrid being Real Fucked Up!! sorry, mothman. listen, you'll be okay. 
> 
> i super appreciate any kudos or comments or feedback you want to throw my way! thank you kindly!


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